Chapter 19

NINETEEN

They didn’t have far to go before John was stopping at the door to a nondescript warehouse. He didn’t knock; he simply opened the door and gestured for her to go ahead of him. It was cool and dark inside, now that the sun had slipped below the roofs of the surrounding buildings, and only a bare glimmer of light shone through the windows tucked up below the ceiling high above. A boxing ring, surrounded by a handful of mismatched chairs and a scattering of wooden crates, had been set up to the left of the door, and Violet turned to John with a frown as they made their way past the ring to the door on the far side of the room.

“Is this Archie’s warehouse?” she asked as he opened that door as well, revealing a darkened office. He nodded as he turned up one of the gas lamps which sat upon a row of metal filing cabinets.

“Yes… it’s where we do most of our training and sparring.”

Violet swallowed back the sudden twinge of anxiety turning her stomach.

“Is… is he here?”

John smiled, shaking his head as he took a key from his pocket and opened one of the drawers.

“No, he’s off in Limehouse with Tommy today. Took Alexander and the Devil with them, too, so there’s no sparring practice, either.”

Violet glanced back out at the warehouse as she drew in a shaking breath. “You sure?”

John was grinning as he turned to her with a ledger book in his hands before setting it down on the desk.

“We wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” he said as he gestured to the chair nearby before taking a seat behind the desk. She slowly pulled it out and sat, watching as he withdrew a small notepad and pen from his coat pocket and set them on the desk. He opened the ledger book and began writing something in the notepad. She glanced down at his scribbled handwriting, then back up to see his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Part of your investigation?” she ventured to guess, and he nodded as he underlined something, the pen scratching upon the paper.

“Yes.” He looked up at her with a crooked grin. “I wasn’t allowed in here alone until I brought you in, so… I suppose I must thank you.”

She let out a small exhalation of laughter as she pulled her chair close to peer down at the ledger. Neatly drawn columns had been filled in with rows of numbers, and she frowned.

“The bookmakers?”

He nodded again. “I can’t take the ledgers with me, or they’ll become suspicious, but I can gather all the numbers and the names of who’s placing bets.” He glanced up at her. “I won’t be long, if you want to look around.”

“Yes, I suppose I will.” She stood and wandered back into the warehouse, gradually making her way over to the boxing ring. Violet closed her eyes as she reached out to trail her fingers along the rope, recalling her first encounter with John Barrow in that cellar at the Fox and Friar. She supposed she had wanted him from that very moment, when she had watched him fighting from the shadows, his muscles shuddering with each impact, his skin slick with sweat, but never had she imagined she would have him. More than that, she had never imagined she would want… more. She opened her eyes suddenly and then, on a whim, stepped between the ropes. Into his territory. It was thrilling, almost, to stand where he fought, to remember the sensation of those same muscles beneath her fingers, the skin damp with sweat, not from fighting, but from pleasuring her. It made her short of breath, and she swallowed.

The sound of the door to the office opening made her turn as he emerged into the shadows. He was smiling as he came towards the ring.

“Looking to spar?” he asked as he stopped before the ropes, his tone teasing, and she laughed.

“Oh, I never learned any proper moves.”

He raised a brow as he crossed his arms over his chest and settled his weight onto one leg.

“Would you like to?”

Oh god. Something in his tone made every muscle in her body clench and she drew in a shaking breath.

“I suppose… it couldn’t hurt.”

John’s smile was wicked as he slipped between the ropes before slowly removing his overcoat.

“Well… it might. A little.”

Violet bit her lip as she reached up to shrug out of her dolman, her gaze never leaving his as he began unbuttoning his waistcoat, then rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms corded with muscle. Her heart was racing as he reached out with a grin and took the garment from her to lay over the ropes before he loosened his tie and turned to her now in just his shirtsleeves. It took everything in her to banish the image of him kneeling at her feet, her leg propped up on his shoulder, gazing down at him as he licked and suckled her until she came apart.

She coughed to dispel the memory as he set his hands upon her shoulders to turn her to face him, then trailed his fingers down the length of her arms to grasp her wrists. Slowly, he pulled her left arm out, away from her body, and cupped her hand in his. He smiled as he curled her fingers into her palm, then folded her thumb across her fist.

“Clench your fist, not too tight,” he said, then gently rotated her wrist. “Keep your arm relaxed… you’ll be too slow if you tense it up.”

Once he had her left arm positioned to his liking, he took the other one and tucked it closer to her body, across her chest, making those fingers into another fist. Her heart was hammering against her ribs as he withdrew, contemplating her for a moment before putting a finger to his chin as his gaze traveled down her body.

“I’m not sure how this will work with those,” he finally said, gesturing to the skirts of the pale green sprigged gown which had previously been declared too modest for the meeting between Archie and Edward Brill, but was quite suitable for a day of running errands. She glanced down.

“Can I not box in skirts?” she asked, glancing up at him with a raised brow. He shrugged.

“I can’t see your footwork, but I suppose we’ll manage.”

And that was when Violet said something that shocked even her.

“I could take my gown off.”

His lips parted in surprise, but the shock did not last long. The corner of his mouth curled up as his eyes flickered down before meeting hers again.

“Yes, that would be very helpful.”

Violet’s chest was ablaze now as she slowly unbuttoned the prim little bodice before casting it to the edge of the ring. Her skirts and petticoats followed, and she stood before him in only her undergarments. His gaze, turbulent with lust, held hers as he took her arms and carefully placed her back in the guard position before nudging her left leg forward.

“Put your weight on your toes,” he said in a low voice, as he backed away to stand opposite her, raising his own arms to mirror her stance. He grinned at her determined expression before reaching out again to take her left hand in his and pointing to her knuckles.

“Keep your wrist straight – all your force should move in a straight line, so you take less of the impact. Hit with these,” he said, touching where her fingers bent nearest her thumb, “not these,” he finished, pointing to her first row of knuckles. “Unless you want to break your hand,” he added with a smile.

“We’ll start with the simplest move, a straight strike. You’re going to keep your fist vertical,” he said, reaching out to make a small adjustment to the hand she held aloft, “and lean into it, putting weight on your lead foot. Now, pull back, and imagine a straight line from shoulder to elbow to wrist to hand” – he demonstrated the strike in slow motion – “and try to hit me in the nose.” Violet held back a smile as she did as he instructed, drawing her arm back, mindful of keeping her fist clenched and her wrist straight, before throwing it forward again. He caught her fist easily in his hand, smiling as he released her.

“Again. Keep your arm up – you’re shorter than me, you need to account for that.”

She nodded and repeated the punch, stopped once more by his parry.

“Again.”

And on she went, drawing back and throwing her fist at him as he made small adjustments to her stance. Just as the muscles in her arm and back began to burn, he pointed to the arm she had been holding against her chest.

“Time to switch.”

“What?” she gasped, dropping her left arm and panting.

“You should be able to lead with either hand; you need to practise on both sides. Here,” he said, stepping closer to rearrange her stance, drawing her other arm out, touching her boot with his to adjust the foot she led with. She caught his gaze as he nudged her shoulder back, and it took only that brief instance for an inferno to erupt inside her, burning and searing, as he slowly stepped away to resume his stance opposite her.

“Hit me,” he said in a low voice. She couldn’t think now, so distracted she was by the pull of desire between her thighs as she drew her arm back and struck out once more. He parried easily, but he was not smiling anymore. He was, instead, looking upon her as though he might devour her, as though she were an oasis in a desert and he was dying of thirst.

“Again,” he said, and she struck him. He caught her fist and pushed it back. “Again.”

In short order, her other arm was burning with fatigue and a bead of sweat trailed down her spine. She was panting as she drew back before connecting with the flat of his palm. He smiled as she leaned back to set herself up again.

“That was good – if it had been my nose, there’d be some damage.”

Violet’s chest swelled with pride, and she jabbed at him again, catching the edge of his hand this time. It unbalanced her, and she couldn’t pull back, stumbling into him instead as the momentum of the punch threw her forward.

She didn’t know how it happened – his arms came around her to catch her, and then he was kissing her, his fingers sliding into her hair as her palms skated up the length of his chest. Her corset came off at some point, she didn’t know when, and his hands were cupping her breasts through her chemise, thumbs sliding over her nipples. She couldn’t think again; she was drowning, pulling him into her, tasting him, breathing in his scent, as he pushed her back, up against the padded post at the corner of the ring.

“Violet,” was his fierce whisper, spoken against her temple as his hips pressed into hers, letting her feel the full effect of his arousal. “Do you want me to stop?”

Stop? Was he mad?

“Don’t you dare,” she breathed against his roving mouth, sighing and tilting her head back as he trailed hot kisses over the line of her collarbone, until he was flicking his tongue over her nipple through the fabric of her chemise. She moaned as her fingers curled into his shoulders, and suddenly, his hands were on her thighs, dragging up the hem of her chemise, and he lifted one of her legs up around him before fumbling with the buttons of his trousers. He freed his cock, pulling her hips against his and entering her in one, smooth thrust.

A long, shuddering sigh of relief rasped out of Violet’s mouth as he held her to him, finding a rhythm that had them both gasping as he caught her lips in a frantic kiss. She clung to his shoulder with one arm, and the post behind her with the other, delirious with sensation as he tilted her hips to access some well of pleasure deep inside her, his fingers digging into her flesh until she combusted, her shout of release swallowed by his mouth closing over hers. Her legs shook with the force of her climax as he lifted her other leg up around his hips so he was holding her, pinning her against the post, thrusting into her as her muscles continued to pulse around him. He released her with a groan to spill his seed upon her bunched-up chemise, his breath rasping against the curve of her neck.

They were gasping as Violet stood between his arms, outstretched to find support on the ropes, her legs quaking as she closed her eyes, trying to find her equilibrium once more. His hand was on her cheek, turning her face up to his so he could touch his mouth to hers. Violet sighed against his lips as he pulled back and met her gaze.

“Violet,” he said again, then smiled softly. “We must be mad.”

Violet rose to kiss him again – God, she loved the taste of him. “We’d only be mad to stop. Don’t you want more?” she asked, dropping her voice to a seductive whisper as she touched her mouth to his ear. “Don’t you want me?”

The words were said partly to hear them from his own mouth – yes, Violet, I want you, I care for you . I want to be with you – and partly because it brought her such pleasure to feel his muscles tense and his breath grow short. He released the hem of her chemise to fall back down to her knees before he took her arms in his hands.

“Want you? Violet… you never leave my thoughts. I cannot sleep most nights for want of you.” His voice was a low, raw rasp as he bent to press his mouth to her jaw. “Every morning when I walk into that room with you, it takes everything in me not to bend you over and—” He swallowed back the rest of the words with a strangled moan, kissing her again instead as heat flooded her belly. She sighed as he drew back, shaking his head, his brow furrowed. Violet’s shoulders fell as she looked up at him and met a gaze full of regret.

“But I am responsible for you while we’re in this… and it is my duty to keep you safe.” He tried an encouraging smile as he lifted a hand to brush back the stray tendril which had fallen over her cheek. “I promised I would get you back to Paris.”

The sting of disappointment made Violet’s throat ache as he gave her one last, lingering kiss before turning away to gather his clothes. She stared at him as he rolled down his sleeves, fighting back the urge to say, “And what then?” What then, indeed? She would go back to her life, the one she had spent three years building, the one that was everything she had ever wanted. He would go back to Whitehall to continue his crusade of fighting crime in the rookery and bettering life for those who lived there; to ensure that what had happened to his sister would not happen again. A worthy endeavour, and one she could not possibly bring herself to deny him. Not when she knew what drove him to want those things.

Violet watched as he blithely gathered up her prim cotton dress, her chest swelling with some strange, breathless emotion, and she realized, in one sudden, horrifying moment… she had fallen in love with him. She was in love with John Barrow. He smiled as he turned to her with her bodice in hand, and she took it without a word, her stomach suddenly churning. Violet had stopped believing in love a long time ago, after a lifetime in Seven Dials had broken her down into a cynical little jade. She had thought she loved Archie, and that had been a lie. Love was a lie… wasn’t it? Hadn’t she seen what men really wanted with women? That was not love. She had sold them what they really wanted instead, and they had been happy to pay for it.

He handed her the remainder of her clothes with another quick smile before tugging on his overcoat. Slowly, she pulled on her petticoats, only vaguely hearing when he said, “Here, let me,” as he turned her around to tie the tapes for her. She nodded in silent acquiescence, but she could hardly breathe as his hands worked at the small of her back. She couldn’t be in love; it wasn’t possible. Then why do you care if you are to be parted? That blasted voice again, whispering at her, making her doubt herself. Why do you care if he says he feels the same? He can’t love you; you are unworthy. You gave him what he wanted; you gave it to him for nothing.

Violet’s chest ached now, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him as he draped the dolman about her shoulders, his fingers lingering upon the nape of her neck before he leaned down to press a kiss to the shell of her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut as her silly little heart fluttered at the gesture.

“We should be going – we need to get back to the club before it opens.”

Violet forced the words out. “Lead the way then.”

His expression was sympathetic as she followed him back out into the street, greeted by a sunless sky and a biting chill in the air. Freed from the confines of the boxing ring and the vulnerability of having his hands upon her, of him inside her, Violet’s heart began to slow, and she frowned at herself. Love? No, she was not falling for that again. She was far more comfortable with lust. Lust was simple, a base animal urge. It had served her well during her time in Cora’s brothel, it had clothed her and fed her and kept a roof over her head. She was not in love. She could not be – what would it get her, anyway? Only another broken heart when she inevitably returned to Paris, and he remained here, in this city which brought her only bad memories.

Paris. Yes. That was the problem. She had started envisioning a future with him – her impractical fantasies of waking beside him, strolling down the Champs-élysées together, dining on pain au chocolat and coffee on the banks of the Seine – they were just that. Fantasies. She had begun to lose sight of her one, single goal, the one she had carried from the moment she stepped onto that train to return to London. Get home to Paris. Restore her career, resume her life. John Barrow had never been meant to be a part of that – he was but the solution to her problem with Archie, and that would have to be what he remained.

Heart hardened once more, Violet turned to John with a serene expression as he opened the door to the box. She felt no fear now, just the small thrum of anticipation of finally getting out of this place and taking her first, freeing steps onto the ship which would take her back to her little studio in Montmartre, where she could pick up the pieces she had left behind and begin putting them back together.

“I won’t be here tomorrow,” John said, as he lit the lamp on the small table for her. Unperturbed, she nodded and perched herself on the edge of the narrow bed as he turned to leave. “I’ll be going with Archie and Tommy to the Royal Albert Dock. Archie has his eye on the warehouses there.” He allowed a small smile at this. “This should do it, Violet – a brand-new warehouse, with thousands of pounds worth of goods inside? He’ll pay for that, no doubt.”

Violet nodded again. “That’s excellent news.”

There must have been something in her tone, in the flat calm of it, because he raised a brow at her and seemed to want to say something, but then apparently thought better of it and slowly dipped his head.

“Then I shall say goodnight. Sleep well, Violet.”

“Oh, I shall. Goodnight, John.”

He frowned again and paused with his hand upon the latch before shrugging and closing the door behind him. The scrape of the bolt being slid back into place no longer set Violet’s teeth on edge, and she slept well that night.